


And Nothing Left To Lose

by traceExcalibur



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-24
Updated: 2011-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:06:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traceExcalibur/pseuds/traceExcalibur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, he says to himself, one day I am going to show her what for, and she’s going to realize that she should have never fucked with me.</p><p>Today, after months – or was it years? – of waiting, that day has arrived.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Nothing Left To Lose

It is another dreary day, in an existence clouded by haze of hatred, perpetually bubbling beneath the surface but never erupting. The furor is held back purely by fear, by the knowledge that she is stronger than him, and unafraid to kill. Should he make one little slip, should she feel that he is no longer worth the effort, she will end him. He knows it, and she knows it, and so they remain locked in a futile, frustrating struggle.

One day, he says to himself, one day I am going to show her what for, and she’s going to realize that she should have never fucked with me.

Today, after months – or was it years? – of waiting, that day has arrived.

His little miracle comes in the form of an unassuming green package and the unassuming white lady who comes to retrieve it. His curiosity piqued, he looks inside and finds a weapon. Not just any weapon; a weapon strong enough to kill her despite the power she wields.

No longer does she hold the reins, he realizes, for this weapon is the strength to combat his fear.

She arrives. She is displeased by his attire – rather, his lack of it. Tacky harlequin costumes, fanciful dresses fit not for him but for some whore whose imagination he sorely lacks, bizarre outfits that he absolutely loathes. She knows he hates them, and he knows she knows. It is one step in their blackened waltz that she has played out far too often. How petty it is, to force him into outfits he does not wish to wear. What a pointless reason to feud, and yet it is everything to them. _Why_ must she infuriate him so? He could settle for a fistfight, hell, for an all-out brawl, but this? She torments him, and he knows if he refuses, she will have his head.

But today, everything is different. Today, he has a weapon.

He tells her he isn’t gonna be a mindless lackey anymore, that’s not his game, see? He’s going to wear what he wants to goddamn wear and if she’s got a problem with that she can shove it up her own ass for all he cares, because he ain’t changing for nobody.

She says that simply will not do, and she says it in the most condescending of tones, as if she wants play mother. She tells him that she enforces the dress code for a very important reason, and if he will not do as instructed, he will be made to pay.

Not this time, he says, and he lets the hatred boil over.

It takes mere seconds to reduce her to a bloody mess on the floor, mere seconds to coat himself in the sanguine stain of victory, mere seconds for the ring to drop to the ground with a clatter. The triumphant air lasts for but a few _glorious_ seconds, and then he is left with nothing.

She is gone. He has won.

He is bored.

With nothing left to him, and nothing left to lose, he wears the ring and seals his fate.

In a universe far removed from his own but so close in ways he could never imagine, he stands atop a roof staring her down with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows. They are tangled in that same blackened waltz; a dangerous dance where he loses arms and eyes and every last shred of dignity left to him, and she loses nothing, for once again she holds his fear over his head. If he should harm her, his world crumbles. He knows it, and she knows it, and so he has given everything for her; his friends, his career, the city he worked so hard to conjure from nothing.

His little miracle – if he could even call it that – comes in the form of a four foot tall asshole in suspenders and an unassuming white pistol. It is a weapon, a weapon with one bullet, and its purpose is simply to bring an end to it all.

No longer does she hold the reins, he realizes, for neither of them do. The end is already determined for them, and they have but to play it out, as puppets on a stage.

His hand clutches the pistol and shakes nervously, and even now, even when he knows what he must do, he is hesitant.

What are you waiting for, she says. Draw, Spades.

On any other day, it would be a taunt to him, a harsh ringing in his ears and a clenched fist and that all-too-familiar anger percolating inside him. He would not be able to kill her, and he would know it, and she’d know it, and so they would remain locked in a futile, frustrating struggle.

But today, everything is different. Today, he has a weapon.

So what if she dies, he asks himself, and so what if he goes with her? It’s the endgame and he’s lost and she’s lost, and they both know it, so why not squeeze out the last bit of romance left in the bloodied, tar-stained pulp that used to be his heart, seize that last little bit of life he has, and take hers?

With nothing left to him, and nothing left to lose, he pulls the trigger and seals his fate.


End file.
